Liechtenstein's national anthem, 'Oben am jungen Rhein'

If you’re British, the first time you hear Liechtenstein’s anthem you’ll do a double take. It’s our tune, note for note. That isn’t a tribute or a recent borrowing; it’s a melody that swept across Europe in the 19th century and happened to stick in Liechtenstein. What differs is the words, and their story is better than you’d expect.

The tune of ‘God Save the King’

The Landtag, Liechtenstein’s parliament, admits on its website that the melody’s origins aren’t entirely certain. It was first published in 1744, drawing on motifs by John Bull and Henry Purcell, and on 28 September 1745 Thomas Arne’s version premiered at the Drury Lane Theatre in London, becoming the English national anthem that same year. It was, parliament points out, the first national anthem of any country.

From there it spread remarkably fast. In the 19th century it was used for the anthems of more than 30 countries, Denmark first among them, and Switzerland kept it until 1961 for its anthem of the day, ‘Rufst du mein Vaterland’. As for how it reached Liechtenstein, parliament’s best guess is that students and seasonal workers brought it back from neighbouring countries where it was already in use.

Words written in Balzers

The text began as a poem attributed to Jakob Josef Jauch, who around 1850 was the chaplain responsible for the early Mass in Balzers. It opened ‘Oberst am deutschen Rhein lehnet sich Liechtenstein’, roughly ‘up on the German Rhine, Liechtenstein leans’. It caught on quickly but was never officially recognised. The oldest surviving score dates from 1862, written out for the Triesen band, and the first recorded performance was on 29 September 1895, at the opening of the national exhibition in Vaduz.

It wasn’t the only contender. At the choral festival in Vaduz in 1879 it was sung with different words, ‘Auf Brüder allzumal’ by Albert Schädler, and parliament notes that, according to oral tradition, there was even a competition in the late 19th century to find a new anthem. Nothing came of it. Instead, Jauch’s words were tweaked several times, ‘Oberst’ becoming ‘oben’ and the ‘German Rhine’ becoming the ‘young Rhine’.

Why the ‘German Rhine’ disappeared

Those words made sense while Liechtenstein belonged to the German Confederation. When the Confederation was dissolved in 1866, the Historisches Lexikon explains, they lost their meaning and grated with part of the population. After 1900 there were attempts to remove ‘deutsch’ from the text, and Gustav Alfons Matt wrote a version almost identical to today’s. German nationalist circles, and from 1938 above all the local pro-Nazi movement, fought to keep the old words in a long newspaper feud. Those difficult years get their own page, Liechtenstein in the Second World War.

The fix came slowly. In 1946 the Historical Society proposed replacing ‘im deutschen Vaterland’ with ‘mein treues Vaterland’ and dropping the second and third verses. Parliament approved that text by a majority in 1963. The music was still unsettled, since the melody had never been fixed by law and was played in different keys, so in 1983 an official version was published for orchestra and choir and for brass band.

How it’s sung, and where to hear it

The official text has two verses and opens with ‘Oben am jungen Rhein’, up on the young Rhine. It’s sung standing. At the line ‘Hoch leb der Fürst vom Land, hoch unser Vaterland’, long live the prince of the land, long live our homeland, people raise a hand, a gesture that parliament says was already used in the 19th century to acclaim the Prince of Liechtenstein.

The best place to hear it with the whole country around you is the state ceremony on 15 August, beside Vaduz Castle. The programme and practical tips are on my page about Liechtenstein National Day.

My view

I like that a country so protective of its identity never felt the need to change the music. It changed what bothered it, the word ‘German’, and kept a tune it shared with half of Europe. A British visitor will find it stranger than most. But if you’re in Vaduz on 15 August when it strikes up, keep a straight face and don’t start singing about the King. Here it’s a serious matter, and the raised hands tell you so.